The Hammer of God

by Tom Avitabile

  Of course, none of this happened without the news services being aware. News trucks and helicopters scrambled to the theater district.

  For the terrorists, all was going according to plan.

  A theater is acoustically a live-end/dead-end room. The live end, where the actors work, amplifies sound so that all their nuances of performance can be heard. The dead end, where the audience sits, is designed to muffle sound and absorb reverberation. So when the house manager came into the lobby to see what all the fuss was about, the shot that perforated her forehead didn’t sound out more than 10 feet. The instant human reaction was also muffled, so the rest of the theater was not aware of what was happening in the rear of the house. In time, though, the screams became more numerous and, hence, louder and clearer.

  From his perspective returning from the men’s room, Phil Dunowsky, an off-duty corrections officer, gauged the situation and decided he could get the guy with the gun. He drew a bead on the guy who just shot the woman with the headset on. He was about to do it by the book and yell “Police, freeze,” when he saw the thug point his gun at an old guy who witnessed the killing.

  “You bastard. I’m going to shove that gun up your ass!” Mitchell Herzog, a veteran of the Korean War, blurted out. He was more angry than smart. He realized this when the hooligan with the gun turned it towards his face.

  Phil fired three times and the bad guy fell. As he died a spasm-induced pull on the trigger fired the gun, just missing the old guy and shattering a sconce on the back wall of the theater. What Phil would never know was that there were more than just that guy in the theater. His world went unexpectedly black as another terrorist loosed a three-shot burst into his head from behind.

  From their spot in the parking lot at Citi Field, 100 yards from the shooting set of the film, they began to see some activity.

  “Let’s roll,” Bill said as his cell rang. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He ended the call and said “Call Joey.” to his voice-activated iPhone.

  “Joey, the President has covered your agent Burrell under the same executive order as Bridgestone and Ross. Tell her she is free to use any means necessary.”

  “Roger that. Thanks, Bill. How’s your end going?”

  “I’m late for the theater and we are about to see if the movie guys are really making a bomb. Parking lot at Citi Field. Have NEST and extraction teams ready waiting for my order. If you don’t hear from me in five minutes, come in blazing.”

  The inter-agency alarms, triggered by the possible sighting of Rashid, took 12 seconds to ripple through every cop, national guardsman, plainclothes and uniformed railroad security personnel throughout Pennsylvania Station. Within a minute, they thought they had a target located in the upper concourse next to the Amtrak waiting area. They didn’t want to spook the guy until they had a clear shot and a chance to secure the case.

  One of the FBI agents assigned to Penn made a chilling observation. The subject appeared to have radiation burns on his face and hands. This was confirmed when the subject passed within 10 feet of one of the radiation monitors and it reported, to the secure room deep within the station, that a low-level exposure had taken place. Two plainclothes officers, one dressed as a homeless person, the other as a Knicks fan, came up on either side of the target. They timed their approach just as the target was passing by a trashcan. In an instant, they grabbed him and, in one smooth move, wrestled the case away by breaking his wrist as he was going down. Then, like an NBA star, the “homeless guy” slam-dunked the case into the can. Fifty cops suddenly came out of nowhere, screaming for everyone to get away. The two plainclothes cops hustled the target out of the concourse.

  From the side of the concourse, a forklift-type machine rolled out and towards the trashcan. The Kevlar and composite resin receptacles lined with blast absorbing bubble wrap like insulation, were located throughout the station and specially designed to direct a blast upward, not outward, to minimize collateral damage if a traditional bomb were planted in one, or, as in this case, placed there by police to limit damage. The forklift carried a two-ton cover cylinder of the same material as the can. It slid the cover over the can, sealing it under 4,000 lbs of weight. For good measure, the cop driving the lift pressed the forks down on the top, adding the weight of the machine to the downward force. In all, 32 seconds elapsed between the takedown of the target and the securing of the canister. Unfortunately, it took the rumors less than half that time to spread to the street.

  CNN, being right upstairs and across the street from Penn Station, had the first scoop. Then it took all of three minutes and the word was out — worldwide. Dirty bomb at Penn Station. Every news organization was heading towards 34th Street and 7th Avenue, including at least 14 additional news copters who were not covering the Broadway theater hostage drama.

  “Let me know if he talks.” Bill slipped the phone into his pocket and turned to Bridgestone. “They’re waiting for a robot x-ray of the bomb containment vessel to see what they’re dealing with. Rashid ain’t talking yet.”

  “Whose got ‘em?”

  “FBI AIC.”

  “Too bad. The agent will have to play by the book.”

  “She’ll have to. The Agent-in-Charge is Brooke Burrell. Joey is heading to Headquarters. But you just gave me an idea.”

  Bill reopened his phone and pressed a speed dial key. “Get me the President.”

  Number 1 had just heard of the events at Penn.

  Number 2 was concerned. “If it didn’t go off, are we still going ahead?”

  “Yes. Half of the news establishment is already at the theater. No detonation means there will be more reporters there, waiting for something to blow up so they can catch it on film. Yes, the threat of the bomb works better for us than the bomb itself! Let’s go! Number 10 should be in position for transfer in five minutes.”

  “Roger that.”

  Agent Burrell couldn’t believe her ears, but she trusted Joe and knew Bill. She hung up her phone, ordered all of the other agents out of the room, and told them to guard the door.

  Rashid protested. “No woman. Only man! No woman!”

  Brooke turned to a shackled Rashid. “Because women don’t have balls, Rashid? They are beneath you because they don’t have testicles? Well, we can fix that. That call was bad news, Rashid. The President of the United States just gave me permission to remove each one of your balls slowly and feed them to you.” She opened a knife that no self-respecting agent, let alone a woman, should carry. “So, soon we’ll be equals.”

  Rashid stiffened.

  Agent Warner turned immediately upon the first screams that echoed through the theater and instinctively grabbed Janice and headed for the exit. She was his primary concern due to her security clearance. Unfortunately, he was not responsible for the elder Hiccocks. Janice protested, but he overwhelmed her and got as far as the lower stage-right exit doors. They opened as two men, in long overcoats and brandishing machine guns appeared. Warner pushed Janice safely out of the line of fire and tapped two perfect kills in the foreheads of each intruder. As he reached down for Janice, she saw his chest explode as a fusillade of bullets ripped him from behind. He fell and didn’t move.

  Number 4 grabbed Janice. “Your in-laws are dead unless you do everything we say.”

  Janice was in shock, yet she noticed men in long coats placing sacks in doorways and stringing wires. Others were herding people at the back of the theater. The Hiccocks were being corralled up the aisle. To her, it was all like a dream in slow motion.

  “Where is your husband?”

  “He’s not here. Why are you doing this?”

  He slapped her. “Shut up. No questions.” He then yelled to two others, “Find him. Try the lavatories.”

  “Hey pal, can I use the can?”

  “Yes, it’s by the white truck,” Sammy said to Hiccock who hastened his step in the manner of a man responding to nature’s call.

  Bridgestone remained and chatted up the caterer. “Egyptian?”


  “Yes. Been in America for 12 years now.”

  “Good business?”

  “I have three trucks and do over 500 meals a day.”

  “It smells good.”

  “Try this.” Sammy tore off a piece of flatbread and dragged it through some baba ghanoush. He handed this to Bridgestone with a napkin under it.

  “Mmmmm, that’s really good. Cumin?”

  “Yes, and paprika and dill.”

  “That’s really tasty. I can see why you are successful. What’s going on here today?”

  “First day of an Iranian film. They are shooting all the exteriors here in New York. Then they’ll go back to Teheran and shoot the interiors. They should be here for a month. That’s why the Halaal food.”

  “Who’s the producer?”

  “Rashani. Biggest producer in Iran.”

  “Which one is he?”

  “Over there in the brown jacket by the helicopter.”

  Bridgestone looked and something clicked. Bill came over feigning relief, “Thanks, man. What are you guys shooting here?”

  “He already told me. It’s an Iranian film. Being made by that guy there, Rashani.” Bridgestone turned back to the caterer. “Mind if we watch for a minute or two?”

  “It’s fine by me. If the A.D.s hassle you, just tell them you are with me, Sammy. Here take my card. I also do weddings, bar mitzvahs, graduations….”

  Bridgestone turned and concealed a laugh. Bar mitzvahs.

  “That’s not Rashani,” Bridgestone said to Hiccock as they walked towards the set.

  “No, its Jahim El Benhan, Alzir’s brother. His name was Dr. Brodenchy before he converted. He’s a nuclear scientist, or was.”

  “No clicks from my counter. The bomb is not here.”

  They both watched as the “producer” boarded the helicopter. One of the A.D.s announced, “This is a camera rehearsal! Everybody clear the copter.”

  The blades turned and picked up speed.

  “What do we do?”

  Bridgestone grabbed a kid carrying a film magazine from one of the trucks. “What are they doing right now?”

  “They’re doing a test to see how the blades look on camera. If they go too fast we won’t see them.”

  “So they’re not taking off?”

  “That thing? Nah, it don’t fly, it’s a prop. The action in this shot takes place after it has landed. The second unit will shoot a real helicopter landing from the air tomorrow.”

  Then, to everyone’s surprise, the copter lifted off, tilted, and headed for Manhattan.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Hammer Of God

  “Come on,” Bill said to Bridgestone. Bill ran to the cop car that was driven here by the now dead cops, got in, and drove over to Bridgestone’s car. “Throw your shit in here. This will get us through.”

  The cop car fishtailed out of the parking lot and shuddered as Hiccock floored the accelerator up the ramp to the Whitestone Expressway. “Bridge, find the lights and sirens.”

  From the driver’s side, Bill kept one eye on the copter, the other on the road. He took the BQE and jumped off at the LIE. Bridgestone was locked on the copter with his binoculars as they reached the peak of the rise of roadway right before the tunnel entrance. Hiccock took the exit for Van Dam Street in order to take the bridge rather than losing the visual as they went through the tunnel. They lost sight of the copter for a moment as they navigated the streets of this industrial part of Long Island City. Their red lights and sirens cleared the way for them to reach the bridge in record time. From the upper roadway, they re-acquired the copter as it hovered over a building on the edge of the river north of the bridge.

  “What’s he doing?” Bill asked as he swerved through one of the separators to take the single outside lane. “Looks like he’s going to land on that white building.

  “That’s a hospital. It’s an air med-evac landing pad.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “What?”

  “There’s a flock of helicopters over that way and another over there!”

  Bill looked left and saw what looked like a swarm of 20 or so helicopters circling and hovering over a part of midtown. To the right were another 15 or so. He flipped on the police radio. “Why didn’t I think of turning this on before?”

  There was a non-stop chain of radio reports and squelching. “Something big must have happened,” Bridgestone said. “They are stepping all over their communications.”

  Through all the static and partial sentences, they gleaned that something was happening at Penn Station. A momentary clear allowed the words “NEST team” to jut out of the radio traffic. Both men instinctively knew the acronym: Nuclear Emergency Search Team. Bill then thought he heard “47th and 8th hostage situation.” But it was quickly stepped on.

  Joey Palumbo didn’t wait to confirm the information before him. He dialed up Bill’s cell. “Bill, Teva Radiological out of Israel had a Palestinian driver who met B amp;R’s truck driver in the desert. He loaded the suitcase nuke into a nuclear MRI machine in a container. Like you thought, the machine was delivered before we clamped down, so they just inspected the container and verified a hot machine inside and then with a police escort passed all our detectors to …”

  “NYU Medical Center. I got it!”

  Joey was speechless. Bill had hung up as Joey said, “How did you…”

  The laundry hamper bumped and rumbled across the roof despite the efforts of the orderly not to disturb the case cushioned atop 10 dirty pillows and made snug by rolled-up heavy blankets on all sides. Once he landed, Number 1 ran to help him, ordering, “Lift; take the weight off the wheels to lessen the bumps.”

  Near the aircraft, they lifted the case, kicked over the hamper, and rested it on the hamper’s side. Number 1 opened the case and methodically armed each part of the firing circuits in the exact sequence. The Russian legends and Cyrillic markings on the bomb, long since translated in his head, posed no challenge. Then he removed a lead separator, which kept the volatile nuclear isotopes relatively safe during transit. He dialed a timer to five minutes. Satisfied that this was done, he pulled a pin from a switch guard. There was no longer a physical obstruction in the way of the switch handle’s path.

  “For Allah, for my people, for my father and my sisters, and with my brother moving my hand, let the Caliphate begin.”

  He threw the last switch.

  “The Ambassador to the U.N., her staff, Undersecretary of Commerce, and SCIAD.” The head of the Secret Service read off the short list of administration assets in New York City to the President and his COS.

  “Are they all safe and in secure environments?” The Chief of Staff asked.

  The Ambassador is at the U.N. and has her detail. The Under Sec is now at the Fed Dep and secure. Quarterback, er, SCIAD and Mrs. Hiccock are presently unaccounted for.”

  “What does Bill’s detail report?”

  “Well, sir, I am sorry to say that Mr. Hiccock left the hotel without notifying his detail.”

  “He’s a science nerd and he gave your top-notch agents the slip?”

  “With all due respect, my men were essentially escorting him. We had no threats, no actionable intelligence. As you know, the weakest link in any protection plan is the protectee. If they don’t play ball, short of physical restraint, there isn’t much we can do. Unless the President orders us to close-cover the protectee as a national asset, then we remove the possibility of them exercising any discretion on the level of protection.”

  The COS waved him off. “Okay, okay. Don’t quote me the manual chapter and verse.”

  “What about Mrs. Hiccock? I personally ordered protection for her. Can’t we find her by calling them?”

  “There’s been some sort of hostage scenario occurring in New York. We’re getting more intel now, but even the NYPD doesn’t have a clear picture yet.”

  “First the radiological bomb in the station and now a hostage taking? What’s the FBI think?” the President asked.
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  “They’re just getting this also. We’re talking the last 30 seconds, sir.”

  “Find the Hiccocks. I want quarter-hours on this. You brief me, Bob.”

  They were going up First Avenue when Bill’s cell rang. “Agent Burell, have you found out anything?”

  Bridgestone tried to glean the gist of the call.

  “And you are pretty certain that this is golden? Okay, thanks and sorry you had to do that.” Bill ended the phone call.

  “What are we dealing with, Mr. Hiccock?”

  “Agent Burrell learned that they do have the nuke and are planning on an airburst over midtown from the copter. You were right; the hospital was the cover for the radiological signature.”

  “How did the lady come to this knowledge?”

  “She had to cut him a few times and threaten to take away his ability to procreate, but he ain’t dead.”

  “We should buy her a drink if we survive this afternoon.”

  The Chief of Staff hurriedly entered the room. “Mr. President, Bill Hiccock on the line.”

  “Bill, where are you?”

  Bill’s voice filled the room from the speakerphone. “I’m in midtown Manhattan. Bridgestone and I are in hot pursuit of a news helicopter that may be the delivery method of the suitcase nuke.”

  “Another suitcase nuke? What makes you think that, Bill?”

  “Could be the same one, sir. Dr. Quan Li confirmed the Persian Gulf spike was weaker than the refinery spike. The attack on our ship was intended to fail and appear like we sunk the suitcase nuke as well. It was just a low-level radiological device. Everything, including the seemingly premature announcement taking credit, was all deception. Thanks to your order covering her, Agent Burrell has derived intelligence to support that they have the loose nuke in the city and are planning an airburst.”

  “Airburst? How can they pull off an airburst?”

  “Bridgestone’s trail led to a movie company that rigged up a copter and we’ve just observed it landing at a hospital in Manhattan. They could be transferring the nuke now, sir.”